


Husbands

by Horribibble



Category: Husbands (Web Series), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Actor Stiles, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Athlete Derek, Baseball Player Derek, Baseball Player Derek Hale, Husbands, M/M, Waking Up in Vegas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:16:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Horribibble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the marriage equality law finally passed, Derek Hale did not expect to be the poster boy for gay marriage. Especially not with America's Favorite Loudmouth, Stiles Stilinski. They'd been dating for six weeks, and whenever Stiles heard the word 'commitment', he nearly broke out in hives! </p>
<p>Now, it looks like they'll be stuck this way for a while. The media is made up of vultures, after all. But maybe...just maybe...it doesn't have to be a sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking Up in Vegas

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fusion fic between Teen Wolf and the Husbands web series, which you really should watch, if you haven't seen it already. You can find it [here.](http://www.youtube.com/user/GoCheeksGo/) As such, you will notice many similarities. Some lines may come straight from the series, while others--and some events--may be completely off-script. 
> 
> I hope you will enjoy it in either case. 
> 
> I found the images used on Google and, in the case of the news banner, in the actual pilot webisode. The series logo itself has also been used. No legal infringement was intended, I do not own any of them.

 

 

 

Derek eyed the boom mic suspiciously, almost ignoring the crew instructions in favor of squirming in the designer suit they’d poured him into—Armani, Lydia had snapped at him, right before attempting to strangle him with the tie.

The outfit was more constricting than his standard suit, but Stiles’ eyes sparkled that little bit when he saw him in it. It made him feel better to see Stiles relax a little, even if he couldn’t do much else at the moment.

There wasn’t a lot he could do about _anything_ right now except smile and thank G-d for Advil. The interviewer smiled at them, adjusting her skirt before reminding herself, apparently, that she really didn’t need to worry about either of her interviewees _looking._

They couldn’t let this interview go south, Derek thought, they couldn’t afford to let this get away from them. Which meant it probably wasn’t a good idea to let the interviewer **_or_** Stiles get much of a word in edgewise.

Which meant he’d actually have to talk.

Damn.

“We’re live in 3…2…”

 

And Derek jumped right in.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 “We kept our wedding secret because, well, you know…” Derek looped his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, angling into him in what he hoped was a suitably loving manner. For good measure, he flashed a smile, which tended to work better for him than lying through his teeth with a straight face.

“Famous athlete.” Stiles piped in, turning his head to wrinkle his nose adorably at his—hell, his _husband._

“Famous actor.” Derek nodded before leaning in to rub their noses in a display of tooth-rotting affection.

“Famous _actress_.” Lydia cut in from Stiles’ other side, tone just shy of pouring acid in their morning mimosas. Both of them pulled back just that little bit, and she tossed her ruddy curls, “Not relevant. _I_ didn’t even know, and I was his best friend!” She shot a look at Derek, who felt part of himself shrivel in terror.

The producer looked as if he wouldn’t mind doing some fact-checking with her after the interview. She went back to filing her nails— _viciously._ Derek had known the woman for less than a week, and he was utterly terrified of her, a feat that had taken the Hale women the majority of Derek’s formative years to accomplish.

“All the people saying that we just went to Vegas and did this on impulse—” Stiles started, and Derek dug his fingers into the back of his shoulder. Yes. This was terror.

“Saying we were drunk?!” Derek threw in an exaggerated eye roll, and he felt Stiles squeeze his thigh right back.

“Hey, they just don’t know us very well.” Stiles winked, canting his head playfully. His shit-eating grin was definitely one for the record books, especially considering where they’d been four days earlier.

 

 

 

**Candy is dandy, but liquor will fuck you up.**

Where they’d been four days earlier was blacked out in a pricey hotel bathroom in Vegas. There were vague memories of flowing liquor, bright lights, and glitter. Not much else survived the initial misery of waking up to twin headaches the likes of which neither had ever experienced.

Stiles had woken up blindfolded in the bathtub, still clothed, while Derek stared blearily into the toilet bowl, knees grinding into the rose petal-riddled bathmat, sans shirt. The lights were Passion Red, and Derek passionately wanted to rip someone a new asshole.

“Derek?”

Derek groaned.

“Derek? Derek!”

“I’m right here, Stiles.” He growled, not moving from his place by the porcelain throne.

“Shit, Derek, I can’t fucking see! Am I blind? I think I’ve gone blind!”

“You’re not blind, Stiles.”

“I need you! I’m blind and I don’t know where I am—which, hey, not that unusual, but—Deeeereeeek!”

With a long-suffering moan, Derek dragged himself away from the toilet and towards the tub, “Damn, you’re a pain in the ass.” He sighed, pulling the blindfold down around Stiles’ neck.

Stiles, for his part, beamed like a five-year-old on Christmas the second he spotted his boyfriend’s face. “Derek!” He laughed, “Hey, man! I found you!”

“Yeah, you found me all right.”

“…Why d’you look like a train wreck? …Hey, I’m in a tub.”

Derek pulled away and turned towards the bathroom door, finally catching sight of himself in the mirror. “Damn,” He grumbled, “You might actually have a point. Come on, we’ve gotta get cleaned up. Find your friend—”

“What friend?” Stiles giggled, and Derek wondered how he’d missed Stiles being _this_ much of a lightweight. Probably sometime after he’d declared himself a Whiskey Man, and asked the bartender—one of the bartenders—to just leave him the bottle.

“The scary one. Lydia?”

“Lydia! I love Lydia, and…whoa. Oh shit, wait. I think I have an early call time back at Emissary. Don’t you have practice?”

“Yeah. Shit. Probably a few hours ago.” He ran his fingers through his hair, “Guess the celebration’s over?”

He watched as Stiles pouted his lips just so, his eyes half-closed, “Marriage equality, after years of bullshit? This party’s never gonna end.”

“Not even for work?” Derek arched a brow, and Stiles leaned in.

“You got any sick days saved up?”

“Coach would kill me.” He shook his head, unable to resist smiling as he took his boyfriend’s hand and helped him from the tub.

“Oh, come on. Finstock kn—nnnn.” There was a tugging motion, and suddenly Stiles was tugging at their joined hands. “Holy shit. Holy shit, Derek. You think you wanna tell me something?!”

Derek looked down at where Stiles’ fingers meshed with his, focusing on the simple but elegant band on his pale finger.

Both chose that exact moment to point out the obvious.

 

**“You got married!”**

 

* * *

 

 

  
 

 

 

“Anyway, it was totally planned!” Stiles grinned, “We’re just so excited!”

Derek smiled so hard he could feel his cheeks burning with the effort. “Absolutely.”

Lydia leaned in to Stiles’ shoulder, her perfectly-manicured nails sneaking over to sink into Derek’s vulnerable flesh. “I couldn’t be happier for them!” She chirped,  “Derek’s such a great guy.”

 

**How the hell were they going to pull this off?  
**

****


	2. We Can't Be Married

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till sobriety do us part.
> 
> Or not.

  
 

 

“No,” Derek said, “ _No._ We’re too famous for something this fucked up to happen.”

Stiles hummed, interest apparently captured by the possibilities. “Out Athlete and America’s Gay Sweetheart Married During Drunken Vegas Weekend and—that’s way too long for a headline. Wow. Scott’s going to _freak_.”

Stiles actually sounded proud of himself for a moment before he began to look decidedly more terrified. Married. He couldn’t be married. Marriage was one hundred percent out of the question. What would his father say? His mother had been the love of his life, the other half of their huge sacred bond. Instead of fairytales growing up, Stiles had lobbied constantly for a personalized account of How I Met Your Mother.

He was _profaning the marriage bed_ in body glitter and booty shorts.

He swore he’d never do this. He had a _list_ of reasons why he’d never do this, and now here he was, staring at Derek Hale’s beautiful torso while both of them hurdled into a PR Nightmare slash panic attack.

Derek didn’t look much better.

“Forget Scott, we got _drunk married_ , Stiles. We’re about to get trashed on a national scale. The **_cause_** is going to get trashed on a national scale!” His mother was going to kill him. His sisters were going to kill him, and Finnstock—there was a massive line of people who were going to _take turns_ killing him. Uncle Peter was going to laugh his smarmy _ass_ off, and the only thing he’d be able to say was _whoops, my bad_.

Oh, no. He was not going to let this get the better of him. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and tried to call up the breathing exercises his therapist had taught him.

Stiles shrugged, tugging off last night’s flimsy shirt and wrapping himself in one of his more obnoxious flannel button-downs. It was probably a security thing. Derek could use one of those.

“Well, people already expect this kind of nonsense from me.”

“We can’t be married. They’re—they’re novelty rings, exchanged in the spirit of high camp, such as we gays are known for.”

“Did you just use the words ‘high camp’ in a sentence? Derek Hale, I’m proud of you!”

“Stiles! Be serious here.”

“Who says I wasn’t?” Stiles grinned, but seemed to swallow it when he saw just how big a panic attack his boyfriend—his _husband_ was getting ready to have. His smile took an awkward turn and he amended, “You mean like…satirical performance pop art? Dude, you think I’m capable of that?”

He actually felt sort of flattered.

“Exactly! We celebrated marriage equality by getting _fake_ married. Vegas style. Which is hilarious, considering we’ve only been dating for six weeks.”

“And for two of those I couldn’t stand you.”

Derek stopped short, looking at Stiles with a bewildered sort of hurt expression. “What?”

Stiles was quiet, making the same trademark expression he made every time he said something outstandingly inappropriate. “Right. Not helping.”

“We know it’s fake because if we got _real_ married, we’d need a license. I don’t see a license, Stiles.” He turned his hands up, smiling desperately, an expression that soured quickly when he saw Stiles begin to squirm.

The crinkling in his pants went from mildly irritating to the burning weight of **The Future** searing a hole in his shorts.

Ouch.

“There may be a document in my pants.”

Derek had no qualms about reaching right into Stiles’ waistband to pull the paper out. Stiles laughed, squirming at the ticklish sensation as Derek looked it over, mouthing the words before barking a harsh laugh.

“Certificate of marriage. It’s notarized. We drunk _notarized._ ” Derek separated from Stiles, attempting to pace in a small space as he began to hyperventilate.“Okay. All right. All right, I can—this is okay, it’s— ** _shit_** , I—”

Stiles reached out, placing a hand gently on Derek’s chest, “Breathe, babe. Use your words.”

“Annulment!”

Stiles blinked. “Not quite the word I expected?”

“Marriages can be annulled if you’re too drunk to know what you’re doing. My teammates do it all the time.”

“So _that’s_ why you’re called the Dodgers.”

Derek planted his hand on the sink’s edge with a thud, fixing Stiles with his best incredulous look. This Stiles was pretty familiar with.  

“Sorry. Mets fan.” The look went from incredulous to betrayed in remarkably little time. Stiles chuckled nervously, “Did I not mention that?”

Oh, his dad was going to have a fit.

“Never _mind_! If we act fast and no one finds out, it’s as if it never happened.”

**_Googalert!_ **

Stiles brightened up immediately, turning to grab his phone from the countertop. “It’s a Google Alert!” He tapped the notification and swiped the screen, pivoting to lean in and let Derek see the screen, “It’s about us. …a travesty? Isn’t that slander?”

“It’s a written article, so technically it’s libel.”

“Are you sure?”

“My sister’s a lawyer.”

“You have a sister?”

Derek looked as if he might be physically ill, so Stiles patted his arm.

“But that’s cool. Still so much to learn about each other!” He beamed, and Derek could feel the headache getting worse.

 

 

 

**All publicity is good publicity in-fucking-deed.**

 

 

 


	3. A Decent Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are NOT 'Being Britney'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late post.
> 
> As a result, I've combined what were intended to be two separate chapters as one long one. Also, you'll notice some substantial divergence from the Husbands series here. For those of you who were wondering about Stiles' particular commitment issues, here's a peek.
> 
> Also, was debating on a Nathan Fillion joke. Decided against.

  
 

 

“ _Hey,_ Lydia. It’s Stiles. Just calling to ask where you ended up last night. I’m guessing it had something to do with the guy from that last strip joint, but then again, not really sure which one was the last. Alcohol and all that. Speaking of being completely fucking wasted, pretty sure I’m legally wed. Call me.”

Stiles hit the ‘end’ button on his phone and let it fall to the faux fur bedspread, eying it as if it might come alive and bite him in the ass. He seemed to be doing a good enough job of that already. His eyes moved over to the remote, and he drew in a deep breath, lifting up the bit of plastic and switching on the tv.

“All American Derek Hale shocked the sports world last year when he let us all know just which team he _really_ plays for, and now he’s added to his stats with a quickie Vegas wedding to the flamboyant actor known to the world as _Stiles_.”

A photo of him and Danny from a recent project flashed on-screen, and Stiles felt better for, like, half a second, because any picture with Danny’s dimples in it was automatically a good picture. On the other hand, he looked like a nutcase.

On the _other_ other hand, Derek was going to lose his fragile little _mind._

“Popular gay Ethan Bloom, what’s your take on this?”

_Ethan? As in that dude Danny’s been screwing, Ethan?_

“Well, it’s definitely a sticky situation.”

“You’d know, Wondertwin.” Stiles indulged a little, sticking his tongue out at the screen before Ethan continued.

“This is a _huge_ setback. The first marriage under the new law, and we get these two morons, drunk off their asses, half-naked, and out of control.”

Which was kind of hypocritical, since Stiles had walked into plenty of Danny and Ethan’s little bedroom romps, and they definitely did _not_ confine themselves to the bedroom. For all the times he’d run into them in public, he was pretty sure Ethan was allergic to shirts.

But still— _ouch._

“What do you know? Show me the footage!”

“Here’s another look at the footage.”

“Oh, **_fuck._** ”

 

 

**!!**

 

“Stiles!” Derek called from the other room, voice bordering, not for the first time this morning, on panic. He opened the folding doors into the bedroom, leaning in, “What’s the news look like?”

“Uh, I may or may not have told all of America to ‘suck it’.”

“And me?”

“You’ve got a really long tongue.”

“Fuck. _Fuck_. That was the head of GLAAD on the phone. Just wanted to let us know that they’d appreciate it if we didn’t emerge from our drug den and file for divorce ten hours after the wedding. The exact words used were ‘a crippling blow to the sacred rite long denied us’.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. He wasn’t feeling so sacred right now. “Does that make us Britney?”

Derek paused in the middle of doing up his shirt buttons—a shame, really. Stiles was fairly certain he’d had trouble with a few of those little bastards last night.

“ _No._ No way. We are _not_ going to be the first gay divorce since the new law. We have to stay legally married for a while.”

Wow. Super romantic. Stiles narrowed his eyes at the fumbling athlete, slamming his fist to little effect against the bedspread. “Straight people pull this shit all the time—your teammates, everyone! What the hell makes this any different?”

“I’m a _role model,_ Stiles. A professional baseball player. Do you understand what it’s _like_ to come out as an athlete?”

“Oh,” Stiles face took on a look of mocking sympathy, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Der. This last year must have been so hard. Try growing up this way, jackass. Try getting slammed into lockers every day of your adolescent life. Oh, but that’d never happen to you, would it? You’d be too busy shoving fairies like me into the dirt.”

“Stiles—”

“Forget it, Derek. I wouldn’t want to fuck up your image.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—every day?”

“Since I was twelve years old. Only person I told before that was my mom, when I was _eight_.”

“You knew when you were eight?”

“I was a pretty mature eight-year-old. Cancer can do that to a family.”

Derek was quiet for a moment, studying the way the natural energy in Stiles seemed to tighten up in a ball around him.

“And…what’d she say?”

“That she was glad I told her. That I was her beautiful boy.”

            “You _are_ a beautiful boy.”

            “Just not marriage material.”

“I just don’t know what to do,” He rubbed at the last of the buttons, like shining the bit of plastic might summon some kind of CTRL+Z genie to unfuck up their lives, “I just…I don’t wanna be _that guy._ ”

“So instead you’re going to martyr yourself for the sake of public opinion.”

Derek seemed to come to some kind of conclusion, because suddenly he was moving forward, settling on the bed in front of Stiles and thumbing at his ankle, his palm, and bit of skin he could reach, really.

“I wouldn’t have.”

“What, martyred yourself?”

He shook his head, “I wouldn’t have pushed you into the dirt, or slammed you into the lockers. I’d have beaten the living shit out of anyone who tried.”

Stiles snorted. “Sure, golden boy.”

“I’m serious, Stiles. I would have stood up for you, and…I think we can do this.”

“I’m sorry, rewind, fuck the what?”

And Derek grinned, “What if…we could make this work?”

 

 

“I know we haven’t been together for all that long—”

“Six weeks.”

“But I like you more than anyone I’ve ever dated.”

“Wow. That’s, uh…you dated Jeniffer Blake. And Ian Bullet. That’s, uh, pretty high praise right there.”

This was getting dangerously close to actual, intentional monogamy stuff. Stiles did not like actual, intentional monogamy stuff. Fuck, was he going to break out in a rash? His skin felt hot and tight all of a sudden, and not in that _Derek Hale is going to fuck me_ warm and fuzzy kind of way.

Stiles got up from the bed with surprising ease, stalking purposefully into the other room as Derek followed. “If we stay married, it’ll be like, ‘Hey, look at that. Gay people showing love responsibly.’”

Stiles gripped the bottle of champagne on the breakfront like a lifeline, wringing at its lifeless glass neck. “Oh. Wow. That was the L Bomb. You have officially dropped the L Bomb, Derek.”

“I…uh…”

“Okay, uh. Why don’t you keep that one in your pocket. Surprise me sometime.”

_Like the Fifth of Never holy fucking shit abort abort._

He slid past Derek, hurrying towards the couch with the bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. This was not okay. He was not prepared for this. He’d been with Derek for six weeks— _six weeks_ —and okay, maybe the guy had this weird habit of making him feel like something special. Maybe he had a perfect smile and scratchy stubble that gave him butterflies when it rubbed against his skin.

Maybe the mornings where Derek wrapped him in his arms and wrestled to keep him from going home were some of the best he’d had in a long damn time, but marriage was kind of a giant fucking leap that did not spring itself upon people like Stiles Stilinski.

No one was ever supposed to stick around that long.

“Stiles, are you okay?”

He felt Derek’s warm hands gently prying his fingers away from the bottle and setting the champagne down on the coffee table. He was kind of crazy about Derek’s hands. And Derek’s everything.

Which was a problem.

“Look, I know this is…a big deal.”

Stiles gave him a look.

“Okay, a huge deal, but why don’t we just…I don’t know…test drive the idea.”

“Babe, you drive a Camaro. There is no reason for you to ‘test drive’ anything. Ever.”

“Stiles.”

Stiles sighed, screwing his lips up into the caricature of a beatific smile and turning slightly to face an imaginary conversation partner, “Me? Oh, no, I’m married, but thanks.”

The words felt strange on his tongue, like he was helping to fence himself in, and then suddenly, Derek was pressed against his back.

“My husband will be back any minute now. He gets _very_ jealous.”

“Does he?”

“He does.”

Stiles felt his shoulders tense up moments before Derek’s thumbs pressed at them, already working at perceived knots of tension. Stiles turned before he could let himself relax. “I stand for something, too, you know! I’m all about me.”

He grabbed for the bottle again, pouring himself a semi-decent portion before Derek took it away and set it back on the table. “Admirable.”

“I mean about _individuality_ , being different, being who _I_ am. Not Suzy fucking Homemaker. I make people uncomfortable.”

“Trust me, Stiles. You can still make people uncomfortable.”

 “What about me, huh? What if _I’m_ uncomfortable?”

And Derek—fucking Derek—had to go and read his mind or something, because he reached over and took the glass, setting it down by the champagne before running his fingers over Stiles’ wrists. His lips followed, and he looked up into Stiles’ eyes before rumbling, “I don’t know what it was that made you _this_ panicky about commitment—”

Stiles opened his mouth to object, but Derek shook his head.

“But I really like you. I really _like_ spending time with you, and listening to your heart beating, and the way you tilt your neck, and the way you talk so fast when you’re excited. I like the way your bony elbows feel when you use me as a pillow, and the way you tuck your freezing toes against my calves at night. I think I can handle the rest, okay? And I think you like some things about me, too. So will you at least let me try?”

Stiles shifted nervously, trying to process the sheer amount of fluff being stuffed into his addled brain, but he eventually managed a muzzy nod. “You really like my toes?”

“And your fingers, and your freckles, and the way you flail like a wind sock when you’re worked up.”

“I _do not_ flail like a wind sock, what the fuck. Way to make this romantic.”

“Okay. All right. How’s this, then?” Derek loosened his grip on Stiles’ wrists, dropping to one knee on the plush carpet. “Stiles Stilinski, will you do me the honor of—”

“Joining you in finding out if the most irresponsible decision we’ve made in our lives may ironically also be the best, largely to avoid public criticism?”

“That, too.” Derek grinned.

“I guess that sounds pretty cool.”

Derek kissed him, and Stiles didn’t feel so guilty anymore.

 

 


End file.
